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(that last [altered] one had just 13 lines!)

(given its theme, seems wrong to fix it now,and, anyway, funny it lacks a line,with all that there about counting them out)

I'm so damned dogged by much. The sober timelurks, always, merely hours off, or less---just words, or lack of words, and there it is.How did I come to such a state as this?Not good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.The cotton from the cottonwoods flies downbut once a year, this very time, in Spring,and sometimes, like this afternoon, it's nota tickle---looking for a sec like snow,or flashback to outside in childhood---but sadly aimless. Dry. Floating. Like tearsthat can't rain down, or wafting dropsnot dropping. Dry. I'm dry, beside the lake.They say that water, in your dreams, means life.